#multipara open

Someone had cracked open the Spice. Some sort of Ryll mix from the smell, though Thera made sure she didn’t stay long enough to get too much of a whiff. Aside from the fact that she despised the stuff, she didn’t need anything fogging up her mind - this may have been a party, but she was also well aware of her position as the Hutt’s favoured bodyguard and what she might be needed to do.

Add in that if even if her duties weren’t directly required there were any number of aspiring killers and thugs who would just adore the chance to topple her from her place and take it from her. Or simply ... topple her, for another reason altogether. Either way, although she might have a drink or two she couldn’t afford to let anything dull her thinking.

Oh, Great Goddess. Everywhere you damn-well-went … Thera put the last of the empty flagons on her tray and turned to go, putting her back to the man giving what he no doubt thought was a charming smile.

“Oh come on, darling. Don’t be like that!”

‘That’ being a polite refusal of his offer of a drink, or his manly company. He’d started up every time she passed his table, even after his companions had departed, passed out, or simply stopped encouraging him.

She put the empties down behind the bar, circled it again to collect the next orders for the rowdy clientele. Normally the work here was fairly staid, only locals and the occasional visitor passing through. That changed, however, whenever there was a lull in the seemingly endless battles nearby. Wars meant armies, and navies, and occasional leave time in town for men who were lonely, far from home, or simply regarded themselves as God’s gift to women.

“Sweetheart!”

… What. The tray she’d been about to lift settled back down with a rattle of glass. He’d actually gotten up and followed her across the damn room!

“Surely you’ve got some time for a hard-working infantryman!”

Thera plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, casually hiding behind it as she made another survey of the room. The eye didn’t go wanting, the vintage detail of the Terrace Room bathed in rich ambient light, the sparkle of the chandeliers matching that of the glasses and frosted carafes - and imitated by the jewelry adorning many of the guests.

And it was the gathered crowd that earned most of her attention; dignitaries, millionaires - even the occasional bit of royalty here and there, sipping, nibbling and swapping outrageous stories.

Ohh, she was never going to live this down ... Thera's teeth ground gently, molars brushing each other as she tried to keep the tightening out of her jaw. Don't grit, don't glare ... just be a pathetic little nerd they don't have to worry about in the least ...

Just be the idiot who got so engrossed in the writing on a dusty catacomb wall that she forgot to watch her six. Who didn't forget that Avalanche were not the only bunch of armed radicals around, but let it slip her mind.

Her eyes followed the movement of the man currently keeping watch over the prisoners - captives, hostages, whatever they were going to become when these fools, currently sending a message through coded channels, realised Shinra was not going to pay any sort of ransom and decided to just sell them off somewhere further out.

The holo-recording was old. Old enough that there were tiny flickers now and then along the edges, maybe the occasional white speck in the grain. Four people were crammed together in the picture, knocking shoulders, elbows and hips as they jostled in the camera’s field. They were in uniform, fatigues, taunting each other and laughing way too loud.

The elbowing got worse, a tall blond man trying to separate two of the others while the fourth pushed them together. An impact, an overbalance, and Thera heard her own voice squeal as holographic her tumbled and all four of them fell over in a shrieking, giggling heap.

Well, Thera mused, resting her flank on one of the pylons propping open the ramp, this was definitely what they called a ‘conflict of interest’. Carrier droids rumbled past, transporting crates from Nocturne Wing’s cargo hatch to the suspiciously unmarked shuttle waiting a short distance away.

Living beings moved around in the low cloud of dust, carrying, directing, and she allowed herself a moment to identify any she could. She knew quite well that many members of the Alliance had bounties on their heads - even an astrodroid, which she found both hilarious and rather sad. But on the other hand, they were a very lucrative customer for any freight-flyer with a reliable ship and the ability to keep their mouth shut.

Repeat custom easily beat out the one-time boost collecting a bounty would provide, so she had no intentions on that score. But it was still amusing to watch what were basically credits running around ‘on the hoof’. However ... she sighed, threw a glance at her chron.

In one corner of the tap-room Thera settled herself behind the table she’d more or less commandeered, a bowl of fresh grapes to her left and a goblet of mead to her right. Pursing her lips, she blew a bit of non-existent dust off the table top and deftly unfolded a red silk cloth, revealing a deck of cards resting face down in the middle of the square.

Thera hated Madame Tussauds. That is to say, she appreciated the time and artistry that went into the creation of the wax models, but that same lifelike quality sent her skin trying to crawl off and herself mentally (and almost physically) skittering away like a spooked cat.

She’d forced herself inside the place exactly once, partly from curiosity and partly determination that the creepy feelings weren’t going to defeat her; an hour and a half of hairs-on-her-neck, which had ended shortly after she almost sucker-punched an innocent curator who had moved at the corner of her eye.